


Bad Craic

by MToddWebster (RembrandtsWife)



Series: Your Shape in the Doorway [3]
Category: Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician)
Genre: Ambiguous Gender, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Gender Ambiguity, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Inspired By Tumblr, Marijuana, Other, RPF, Recreational Drug Use, gratuitous mention of Willie Yeats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25371613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/MToddWebster
Summary: "Craic", pronounced "crack", Irish slang for good fun.
Relationships: Andrew Hozier-Byrne/You
Series: Your Shape in the Doorway [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839052
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	Bad Craic

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this Tumblr post](https://palaceofobsessions.tumblr.com/post/623725160479981568) featuring the now-famous RTE Comic Relief video, especially the testimony of mediumwife. I make no apologies, this is the apocalypse, write whatever you can.
> 
> Also, this is a work of fiction about a fictionalized version of a real person. I know nothing about Andrew Hozier-Byrne that isn't public (much as I might wish otherwise).

"Come for the craic," your friend said. "It'll be good."

Once she explained that "craic" was spelled "c r a i c" and meant "fun" and did not necessarily involve drugs, the party did sound like fun. Just some musicians from the local scene, she said. There'd surely be drinking, there might be some jamming. Pick up the local color, something to write about when you went home. Right. You'd come for the craic.

The fact remained that, although you were finally visiting Ireland, the country of your dreams, and meeting people, having a great time overall... you were still an introvert. Who didn't really like parties.

The pubs in Ireland are fine, more neighborhood hangout than pick-up joint, although you could pick up if you wanted to (and you have, a few times). But this party is at someone's apartment, and it’s crowded, noisy, hazy with assorted varieties of smoke, and kind of dark. And crowded. And there isn't anything to eat.

You’re wandering the back hallway, looking for the bathroom, (sorry, "the toilet", no, you were not planning to take a bath) when you spot him through a half-open door--a solitary figure framed in a window, the late sunset behind him. Long fingers holding a joint and knees drawn up almost under the chin.

"Oh, excuse me--"

He starts like a wild animal that's just noticed the human observer, but there’s just enough light from the hallway to see him smile--a shy smile on a long, angular face with wide eyes. "'S alright, I was just hiding. Were you looking for the toilet?"

"Yeah."

"One more door to your right."

"Thanks."

When you finish in the bathroom, you see a light on in that back room. The helpful stranger is still sitting in the small bay windowsill, legs crossed. He has a short beard and wisps of brown curls sticking out from under a grey beanie, and a mouth that moves beautifully, alluringly, when he puts the reefer to his lips and inhales.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Not a' tall."

It’s a bedroom, a guest or a spare judging by the neat covers and the lack of any kind of clutter. Nobody’s snuck in here to have sex, which seems a little odd, but maybe they do things differently here in the Emerald Isle. The neat bed is offputting, so instead of sitting on it, you wedge yourself into the window seat beside him, at a right angle. This close, you realize how tall he actually is--the length of his feet in battered Chucks, the length of his legs, the fact that even seated, his head is higher than yours.

"I'm Andrew," he says, dropping his feet to the floor and offering you a hand so long and pale you have an impulse to kiss it rather than shake. But you shake it and tell him your name and lean back into the corner, ready to talk to someone who's willing to admit he's hiding from the party scene. 

"You can probably tell I'm not from around here."

"Yeah, yeah." It comes out closer to "yeh". "The States, right?"

"Right."

He smiles, puffing his joint. "I am from around here. I mean, I grew up here in Bray, and just outside, mostly. What brings you to our fair town? Not on the usual tourist circuit."

Your mouth is a little dry, and you wish for a beer. "I came over for the Yeats Festival in Sligo, made a friend, came to stay with her here for a couple of weeks, or whatever."

His face lights up--thick straight eyebrows lifting, a smile that crinkles the corners of his deepset eyes. Are they green or brown? You can't quite tell. "Ah, our man Yeats! He's the best. What's your interest, then--theatre, poetry, folklore?"

He's the first person you've met, here or at home, who's been at all interested or impressed that you would cross the Atlantic for a festival devoted to a (major, fight me) poet.

"Yes?" you answer helplessly, smiling back. "All of the above? I'm a writer."

"I'm a songwriter, meself. And singer, guitarist. Third-rate poet improving my verses with tunes." That last word comes out as "chunes" and it's the funniest and most charming thing you've ever heard.

"D'you want something to drink? I'm getting for myself." He unfolds off the windowsill and you realize he's well over six feet in height, lean as a tree.

"I'll take a beer, thanks."

He ambles out of the room with the gait of someone who was used to holding back his long stride for shorter people. You turn to look out of the window, curious. It’s finally dark, past ten o’clock, the city below sprinkled with lights--not as bright as back home, but not quite suburban-dark, either. You hear his voice approaching and someone else's, your friend, haranguing him.

"Andrew, what? Did you kidnap them and tie them up in the dungeon of boring people?"

"I didn't kidnap anyone, Ange, they walked into my dungeon of their own free will." Andrew returns carrying two beers in one hand and followed by your friend, who seems to know him.

"I can't believe I brought you to this party and you wound up talking to this man. He's the worst craic in Ireland, never does anything at parties but mope and smoke weed. And that's when he's in a good mood--if he's in a bad mood, he reads ya poetry."

Andrew offers you a beer, already open. "Oh, yeh, I'm shite craic, I am. And this beer is shite, and good weed is shite, and poetry is shite, especially Yeats, right?"

He gives you the world's slowest wink and takes a swig of beer, exposing a long, lovely throat. All of his skin seems to be as pale as Snow White's, and you find yourself thinking of kissing that throat and leaving marks.

Angie laughs. "Right, then. If bad craic with a broody musician is what you want, I'll leave you to it. Just don't let Hozier play you any of his boring songs."

She heads back to the rest of the party, which sounds like it’s still going strong. You look at Andrew quizzically. "What did she just call you?"

He laughs. "Hozier. It's my stage name. I'm Andrew Hozier-Byrne."

The cold beer bottle almost slips right out of your fingers. "You're HOZIER? As in the guy who did ‘Take Me to Church’?”

He laughs again, so big it startles you, but it’s also rueful. “Yeah, that was me. Never gonna live it down, I guess.”

“Live it down? That was a kick-ass song. Your whole first album was amazing.”

“T’ank you.” The light is too low to be sure, but you think he might be blushing.

“Are you releasing anything new soon?”

He nods despite having his mouth wrapped around the neck of his beer. “Yeah, an EP in about three months, and then a whole new album about three, four months after that.” He puts a finger to his lips, and you notice again those elegant hands. “Top secret, very hush-hush.” He grins. “Got to admit I’m proud of it, worked with some magnificent people.”

You begin asking him questions about the new work, half-teasing, not really expecting him to give anything away. You learn that he wrote most of the songs, except for some collaborations with Alex, his bassist and best mate, and that he’ll be performing a duet with someone very famous, a Black artist, “not Beyonce, I swear”. He talks up Alex to the skies, pointing out that while he himself was a college dropout, Alex had finished his music degree and was a composer and arranger in his own right. You almost say that you’re interested in *him*, not in a date with his best friend.

He also gives away that he plans to be touring for most of the following year, with multiple dates already lined up across Europe and the U.S., and more will be added if the demand is there.

“You’ll be in my area around March or April, it sounds like.” You roll the empty beer bottle between your hands. “Maybe I could see you while you’re there….”

Your cheeks are too hot for it not to show, surely. He tilts his head gravely. “I don’t know, it depends on the pace of the tour… but maybe I could see you again while you’re still here in Bray?”

It’s a better answer than you’d hoped for. He seems to be leaning toward you a little more, is he looking at your mouth--but then there’s a burst of noise close by the open door, and he straightens up. Oh well.

“Want another beer?”

You stand up. “Yeah, I guess. Wish there were some kind of munchies, though.”

He also stands up; yep, he towers over you. “Hungry, are you? I know a place where we can get decent food and better beer than this. And it’ll be fairly quiet, too.”

His smile looks impossibly hopeful. “I think I’d love some decent food and better beer at a quiet place. Sounds like good craic to me.”


End file.
